


The Story of a Sister Dear

by Mycroffed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: My 'write until you stop hurting' session, Spoilers for Season 4, Spoilers for The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9339950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycroffed/pseuds/Mycroffed
Summary: Euros Holmes' life had always been a lonely one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I strongly advise you to watch the episode first.  
> It was positively brilliant, hurting and they introduced a great new character.
> 
> This was my attempt to play with her.
> 
> xx
> 
> (Themes and possible triggers are mostly the same as the episode.)

Euros.

The youngest sister.

The little girl who just couldn’t feel, who just couldn’t understand emotion.

All she wanted was someone to look at her, to play with her, to be her friend, to listen, to play, to love to live to laugh.

But no one ever came.

She could see things, she could predict things, based on the data she gathered from the world around her. She was told she was the most gifted person in the entire world. Even after they had locked her up, they kept telling her that, as if that was supposed to make her feel anything. But it hadn’t, it never had, and people were just too stupid to realise that.

She had always envied Sherlock. Sherlock and his friend, Yellowbeard and Redbeard, the two best friends, playing pirates all day long, well not if she had anything to say in it. So she created a little game, a little puzzle for her dear brother.

He would surely like that, wouldn’t he? Maybe he would laugh again. She would like that. At least that was what she thought. What she hoped, even, maybe.

She hid what he cared about, she hid his b e l o v e d plaything. She hid his Redbeard in a place where he would never find him again.

She sang the riddle, she sang the song, so many times but he didn’t seem to understand it, he was stupid like all the others, he was stupid, stupid stupid stupid just like every other person on this stupid planet.

They begged to give Redbeard back, to give Victor back, to tell them where she had hidden it. She had liked the begging.

At least she thought so.

 

They hadn’t found Redbeard in time. She knew that, even if he had lived through the nights, he would have starved by now. Starved. She had looked it up what it meant, to starve, what it would have felt like for the boy. She couldn’t even start to imagine.

All she knew was that this little stint had gotten her attention, she had gotten different people to look at her. Sherlock, who had laughed – later, her parents had told her he’d been screaming, crying and they had taken him away again. Mycroft, who had simply stared while he had been eating, while he had been holding a cake. Their parents, who had asked her, over and over again where she had hidden the boy. She decided that they were the most boring out of all of them.

But eventually, the attention had gone away again. Eventually, people realised that this would just be a secret to the world, with only Euros to know the solution. But she didn’t like that, she wouldn’t accept that, she wasn’t going to leave it be like that. So she was going to try something else, something new.

She set fire to the Holmes house.

It had been by accident, of course, she had been staring at the purity of the flame, of the little match, when it had gotten too close to her fingers. She had seen that coming, yet she hadn’t let go of it. She had wanted to feel.

So when her body reacted out of instinct, when she had dropped the match, she didn’t react. She just stared at the flame, watched it grow and grow and grow, devour the things around it. It was beautiful, really.

But then her boring parents had to come running, had to pull her away from the beautiful flames that were taking care of the world around her. They pulled her downstairs to wait with her brothers, with her father, with her mother. They called some strange men, people she had never seen before, new people, who asked her if she was alright, who took care of her body.

She had loved it.

And that, she knew for certain.

 

But it hadn’t lasted that long. Eventually the people went away again – the night wasn’t even over and they were gone again already – and she was once again alone with her family. Her boring family who didn’t understand her, who could do nothing to help her.

But even that didn’t last long. The next day, new people came. They walked with her parents, walked next to them, along with Mycroft. They threw big words around she didn’t quite understand, and others that she did. 

Sherrinford. Secure. Safe.

Sherrinford. Always Sherrinford.

She tried to understand what that word meant, she tried to figure it out, but it just didn’t work, it just wasn’t possible.

And then the men took her away.

 

She didn’t quite know how to feel. She was so alone, she was so—there was nobody there with her. And that was when she created the airplane. Every time she closed her eyes, she was on a plane, surrounded by people who were asleep. And nothing could wake them up.

Sometimes people came. Always different ones, never the same. They came to talk to her, try to figure out why she was the way she was, but she always said the wrong things, because eventually, they did the things s h e wanted, rather than the other way around.

But every time she turned someone around, every time she made someone do things the others didn’t like, they came less and less.

She was alone.

She was alone, in her plane, once more. 

 

Christmas was the most fun time of the year. That was when Mycroft came, when he had his treats in exchange for information about the future, about what was going to happen to the world she wasn’t allowed to see.

A violin.

Things that could keep her occupied, things that were. . . boring.

Until Mycroft gave her a brilliant gift: James Moriarty, five minutes, all for herself. Not even Mycroft would listen in. He had promised. (He really did look funny grown up.)

So once they were alone, they started planning. They had five minutes and in five minutes, they not only managed to plan it all, but also record everything they needed. Now all she had to do was wait. Wait for Sherlock, wait for this. . . John, wait for Mycroft.

Eventually she grew tired of waiting. She decided to start her plan with James, to take over Sherrinford before Mycroft would realise that he had lost control of everything. The people were cooperating, the people were paying attention, were playing. She liked this so much, she liked being in control, being listened to.

She liked being the clever one.

 

Once she had taken care of the place, then all that was left for her to do was mess with the people for who the entire plan was intended. She went to London – who was going to stop her? – and she talked with John, she messed with Sherlock’s little head – he always cared so much, didn’t he, that man. He just c a r e d too much.

The ball had started rolling like that, but what had been the drop that had made the bucket spill, was the grenade. They all came there, to her turf, to her little playground.

It was time to play.

 

It turned out differently than she had planned, her game. It had backfired, she hadn’t even gotten to finish what she had planned. But he had been there. Finally, there was someone there to look at her, to play with her, to be her friend, to listen, to play, to love to live to laugh.

And it had been Sherlock.

It had been the stupid one.

He really had been her favourite, all along.

 

She retreated into herself again. While before, she had been talking, now, she would just sit there. She would just sit, wait for Sherlock’s next visit. Sherlock, he was her entire world now. She could say that she finally understood one emotion.

She understood love.

She loved Sherlock. She loved Sherlock. She loved—Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Sherlock.

S h e r l o c k.

 

\--~--

 

Sherlock had been visiting her on a regular basis for years, every month a few hours of playing the violin with his sister, which he grew to enjoy more and more. Sometimes John asked what she was like, how she was doing. He realised that the doctor was only asking out of politeness, only asking because he knew that the detective cared.

Seventeen years after their lab rat experiment, Sherlock prepared himself again for yet another trip to the island. He called ahead to make sure that they knew he was coming, though it was never a problem.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes.” The woman on the other side of the line didn’t make an emotional mess of it. She went straight to the point, straight to what had changed.

“She’s dead.” Sherlock stated. He had thought that he wouldn’t feel anything when the day would finally arrive, but there was. . . There was an empty feeling in his chest. He hung up, put his bag back down and returned to the living room, where John and Rosie were both reading.

John looked up, immediately sensing that something was wrong. “Hey.” He put away his paper, got up and wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Did it happen?”

“Yes.” Sherlock glanced at his friend, realising that there were tears in his eyes. “Yes. It happened.”

“Rosie.” John didn’t even speak up, but the girl immediately looked up and put aside her biology book. “Go to your uncle Mycroft and tell him that it has happened.”

“Dad, why can’t I just call, he’s at the other side of the—” But John held a hand up, stopping her before she had even finished the sentence.

“Take a cab. Do it, Rosie, please. There’s fifty pound in the drawer you discovered three years ago. Take it and go to your uncle. Sherlock and I—we need to talk.”

Rosie huffed, walked towards the drawer and grabbed the money, knowing that it was much more than she needed for a cab ride to her uncle’s. “Just know that you aren’t seeing the rest of the money again.”

“I know sweetheart. Just don’t spend it on sweets.” John was already guiding Sherlock to his chair, to his usual spot in the Watson-Holmes household.

“Dad, I’m s e v e n t e e n. I don’t buy sweets anymore.” Rosie waved from the doorway before leaving the apartment.

As soon as Sherlock heard the door slam shut downstairs, he collapsed against his friend’s shoulder. And for once, he allowed himself to cry for his lost sister.


End file.
